Chapter 14
Chapter fourteen
Laurel
The only indication I get that Carrson gives a damn I almost died is when he doesn’t kick me out of bed.
Instead, I wake with a hand shaking my shoulder.
I open my eyes to find his face inches from mine, close enough that I can see a faint scar across his brow, the shadows under his eyes.
He looks me over carefully, like he’s searching for all the bruises inside me that match the ones on the outside.
I’m good at hiding my pain, so I don’t blink. I just stare back, empty.
“Get up, little mouse,” he murmurs. “It’s time to sharpen those claws.”
I shove him aside, hand to his chest, and roll over, putting my back to him. “Go away. I have another hour to sleep.”
Thud.
The floor slams into my back. A pair of leggings and my sports bra land on my head a second later.
“Get up,” he says again, rougher this time.
“Fuck you,” I tell him, but there’s no heat in my words.
My head dangles forward, my hair a curtain to hide the tears that blur my vision as I quickly dress.
Fingers trembling, I gingerly touch my neck.
It hurts. I can still feel the imprint of Sam’s fingers, the echo of my own panic.
That choking certainty that I was going to die.
Even after everything I’ve been through, after Preston, I’ve never felt so defeated, so trapped and powerless.
I can’t run, not without forfeiting my father’s health and my future, but what future do I have if I end up in a grave?
A toe prods my hip. For the third time, he tells me, “Get up.”
“Screw you,” I sniffle, eyes burning.
Carrson hooks his hand under my elbow and hauls me to my feet, where I stand swaying, glaring at him through tears I won’t let fall.
“Stop wallowing in self-pity. It won’t save you,” he says.
“I’m not wallowing,” I spit out. “I’m surviving.”
“No, you’re hiding. There’s a difference.” He paces a few feet away, then turns on me. “You need to learn to fight. To be feared.”
I lift my chin, shaking. “You mean you want me to be like you?”
“Exactly like me.”
He steps closer, his body heat radiating, but I don’t back down this time. I’m too tired or maybe just too numb.
“I don’t care if you hate me,” he says. “Hate is useful. Pain is useful. What you feel right now? That hollow pit inside you?” He taps his chest, slow and deliberate.
“That’s a weapon if you learn how to wield it.
” His eyes narrow. “You need to put someone on the ground and make them afraid to get back up.”
He lifts his hand fast, slashing it through the air like a knife.
I jump backward and lift my hands to cover my face, flinching hard.
“You know how to tell if a dog’s been abused?” he asks, his tone disturbingly calm.
“What?” I ask, confused by his sudden change in topic.
“You raise your hand. A dog that’s never been hit? It stares at you, tail wagging. Happy. Trusting.” His voice goes cold. Clinical.
A tendril of dread slithers along the back of my neck. I have an inkling of where he’s going with this, but he can’t know, right? About what happened?
“On the other hand, a dog that’s been kicked, beaten, betrayed?” He lifts his hand again, slowly this time. I stiffen. “That one flinches. They cower. Every time.”
I laugh, brittle and fake. “Let me guess, I’m the dog in this metaphor? Nice.”
“Why do you move away whenever I raise my hand to you, Laurel? Why do you flinch when I shift too fast or get too close?” Carrson tilts his head, narrows his eyes like he can see right through me. He takes a step toward me, and I instinctively back up.
“Maybe it’s because I’m surrounded by psychopaths like you, or maybe because Samantha tried to kill me yesterday.” I cross my arms over my chest and use my best snarky tone. “Those seem like good reasons to be jumpy.”
A slow shake of his head. “No. You’ve been that way since I met you.”
“You’re imagining things.” I turn my head away, unable to look at him any longer. I don’t want to have this conversation.
Not now. Not ever. Most of all not with him.
Suddenly, he’s right next to me, his fingers under my chin, forcing my gaze to meet his.
Carrson whispers, “What happened to you, Laurel Turner? Straight A student. Perfect attendance. Friend to everyone. How did you end up in my town? Beaten down.” He pauses, gives me a long look, and asks, “Who hurt you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My breath has gone shallow. My gaze darts around the room, unable to focus on any one thing.
“Hmm.” He puts his mouth close to my ear. “I don’t believe you.”
I wrench away from him and take a step back.
“I think it has something to do with your senior prom,” he says, his expression tense, rage simmering below the surface. “Who was your date again?”
I’d been so excited. My first prom, and my date was the captain of the basketball team.
My stomach bottoms out. Fear clamps over my body, turning every muscle to stone. “Please, no,” I whisper, my voice hushed.
My begging doesn’t stop Carrson. He carries on like a battering ram. “Oh, yes,” he says with a merciless glint to his eye. “Preston, wasn’t it? Preston Lowe?”
I’m going to throw up. I’m going to black out.
Come on, Laurel. It’ll feel good. Preston shoves my dress up as I sob.
“Stop.” The word rips out of me. Tears swim in my eyes, break free, and trail down my cheeks. “Don’t,” I stumble, raise my hands to ward off the memories.
Carrson’s not looking at me anymore, he’s inside me, pulling my walls down with every word. “You wore a black dress. I saw the picture. His hand was on your waist. You were smiling, but tell me, how did the night end?”
I fought Preston, but I’m too small. Too weak.
Carrson stands across from me like he’s waiting for something to snap. “What happened to that dress, Laurel? I don’t see it in the closet.”
I burned it, set it on fire in my backyard and watched the flames devour it.
I hoped the fire would scorch away my shame.
My pain. That all those emotions would float up in the air with the ashes, but they didn’t.
I breathed it in, that toxic smoke, and it settled deep in my lungs, in my soul, and it’s been suffocating me every day since.
“Stop,” I tell Carrson, louder now, my voice cracking as my hands ball into fists.
“You’re not safe,” he says, his eyes on mine and I see it there, a mixture of pity and rage. He knows. He knows what happened to me. “You weren’t safe back then. You’re not safe now. Not safe anywhere. Not unless you become someone they can’t touch. Someone they fear.”
My stomach tightens.
“How about your dad?” asks Carrson, devil that he is. “How did he find out?”
I was bleeding. Dad took me to the hospital. One look at me and the doctors knew. They told Dad. The look on his face. The devastation.
Carrson’s gaze sharpens. Not cruel. Not kind. Just cutting. “You want to survive?” he asks. “Then face it. Don’t pretend it didn’t happen. You’ve been doing that for months and look where it got you.”
I’m shaking now. Fists clenched. I don’t know if I’m going to scream or collapse.
“You think Preston was the last?” Carrson asks, quietly. “You think Sam’s the worst this world has waiting for you? You haven’t seen anything yet.”
“I said STOP! Shut up!” I lunge at Carrson, my fists flying toward his face, but he dodges. I’m crying, like I have so many times since that night, but this time they aren’t tears of sorrow. They are tears of rage. Bitter. Acidic. The kind that burn as they fall.
“I didn’t ask for this.” A shuddering breath as I say, “I didn’t ask for that.”
“You’re right,” Carrson says, backing up as I charge again. Calm. Controlled. Like this is exactly what he wanted. “You didn’t ask for it, and you didn’t deserve any of it.”
I swing. Wild and clumsy.
He ducks, keeps just out of reach.
“It wasn’t your fault. The things that happened to you,” Carrson says, like he knows how I’ve blamed myself, torn myself apart. How I’ve questioned if the dress was too short, if I flirted too hard, if I somehow gave Preston the idea that was what I wanted.
I move faster, reckless. My hands lash out. I want to hit him. Hurt him. I want him to feel something, anything close to the pain I’m drowning in.
He keeps slipping just out of reach. Untouched. “It wasn’t your fault,” he repeats with emphasis. “You didn’t do anything wrong to deserve it.”
I move faster as he dances back, but this time, I get in a slap to the side of his arm. Pathetic, but still, it feels good. That I got my hands on him.
His eyes light up, not with pain, but something colder. Approval.
“Good,” he encourages. “That’s it. Feel the rage. Let it feed on itself. Let it grow.”
“I’m going to kill you,” I threaten, and for the first time I’m not sad, I’m not thinking about all I gave up. I’m thinking about how I want to take. I want to rip that knowing look off his face. I kick and hit and swipe, but I’m clumsy and he’s fast.
“Don’t get sloppy,” he chides. “Focus that anger. Let it sharpen into a point. A sword. A dagger. Be strategic about when and where you strike.”
He moves so fast I don’t see the punch coming. He doesn’t hit me, just jabs past my face, a whisper of air grazing my jaw. It makes me even angrier. I’ve been trying my best and I still can’t catch him, but he can hurt me whenever he wants.
“Go ahead,” he says, not even short of breath. “Hit me.” He taps his chest. “Come on. One punch.”
I ball my fist and swing, but he catches it midair. His grip is brutal. Not enough to hurt, just enough to hold.
He drops my hand like it disgusts him.
“Again.”
I square my stance and dodge forward. This time I hit his shoulder, but my strike is weak. His body barely shifts from the impact.
“I said hit me, not tickle me.” He steps into my space, grabs my wrist, and twists it, not to break it, but to prove he could. My knees almost buckle. “Don’t just punch. Control. Power. Rage with precision.”